


Skies Over Utapu

by mothpuppies



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bar Room Brawl, M/M, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothpuppies/pseuds/mothpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han hasn't seen Luke for a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skies Over Utapu

**Author's Note:**

> Han calls Luke "the kid," but this story takes place in the TFA timeline, so they're both pretty old at this point. A/U where Kylo Ren is the son of Leia and Lando.
> 
> (Many thanks to Ellen and Drew for helping me out with this one.)

**♫ A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes… ♫**

With a grimace, Han Solo downs his fifth Corellian brandy, and his stomach seesaws. He sets his glass on the grimy bar-top, which is scuffed from countless standard years’ worth of use, and lifts his head to gaze unsteadily at the barkeep. As he catches the man’s eye and gestures for another drink, he can’t help but notice that the server—humanoid and therefore all but out-of-place in this Outer Rim dump of a bar—has sky blue eyes and a slight cleft in his chin, in a way that’s startlingly reminiscent of _the kid_.

An unexpected burst of longing and heat rises up within Han, and for a moment he considers striking up a conversation with the barkeep, even dropping a wink and a smarmy pickup line or two. Han knows the alcohol currently buzzing through his bloodstream would add a nice patina to his self-esteem, enough to embolden his flirting and get him through a one-night romp with the stranger, but—

But he thinks better of it, and bites his tongue. _It would be an empty encounter, ‘cause that guy ain’t the kid, and you know it,_  he tells himself.

**♫ You left me in the dark. No dawn, no day—I’m always in this twilight in the shadow of your heart…♫**

Turning away from the barkeep, he cranes his neck to look at the band of Twi’leks currently singing on the stage at the back-end of the bar. A spotlight illuminates the lead singer’s pale green skin and cuts through the haze of tabac smoke that fills the room. Han recognizes the song she’s singing—it’s _everywhere_ , since any song that gains notice in the upper echelons of Inner Core culture seems destined to ripple quickly throughout the rest of the galaxy. Groping for a moment through his alcohol-induced fuzziness, Han recalls the name: “Cosmic Love” by Florence & the Droids.

He lets his gaze rest on the Twi’lek as she leans into her mouthspeaker and rolls her head-tails from side to side. _Lucky thing the Twi’leks have a knack for speaking Basic_ , he thinks with a snort. _Better’n that band of shrieking Caamasis in the bar on Kanuvian-V_.

**♫ I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map, and I knew that somehow I could find my way back ♫**

Then the words resonate in Han’s head, which he drops wearily into his hands. _Just what I needed tonight: another kriffing love song_. Since the events two years ago, where Luke left the emotional equivalent of a blaster-bolt hole in his chest, Han has spent most evenings drinking to forget. Cliché, he knows, and hates himself for it, but what can he do? _‘S not my fault the kid’s endeavor went belly-up. And what could I have done, anyway?_

 _You could’ve been there for him when his student turned against him and his world crumbled at his feet_ , a voice within Han answers darkly, but Han shakes his head. _He’s a Jedi now. He doesn’t need the likes of me, a two-bit sham ‘n a lowborn smuggler. He’s practically as royal as Leia. He’s got the damn_ Force _on his side, there’s no way I can compete with that._

Still, there’s hardly a standard hour that passes where Han doesn’t feel that old familiar tug, doesn’t miss Luke like a limb. Luke, who was serious and handsome, who kept their bed warm and held Han through his nightmares, who had suntanned skin and eyes as clear-blue as the sky over Utapu during the growing season.

Han knows Leia worries about him when he goes off to these makerforsaken rock planets in the middle of nowhere to drink and sleep and drink again, but she at least takes comfort in the fact that Chewie waits dutifully near the door for Han and always takes him back to the _Falcon_ safely. Han rises now to meet the Wookiee outside, slapping a 20-credit note on the counter as he goes. He knows he’s going to either have to start making smuggling runs again or slow down on the damn drinking, but as it stands right now, Han can’t face the thought of a future—any version of a future—that doesn’t include Luke. _So drinking it is_ , he thinks grimly.

He’s almost reached the door when a large, four-toed foot sticks out from one of the barstools and trips him. Han twists as he falls to the floor and his hip meets the ground with a sharp pop. _Not as quick as you used to be, old man_ , he thinks, as the foot’s owner stands to tower over him. A hammerheaded Ithorian glares down at Han—at least, Han _thinks_ it’s glaring—and begins to talk rapidly from both mouths in a guttural language.

Moving stiffly, Han raises slowly to his knees, hands spread wide in a placating gesture. “Look, buddy, I don’t know where you’re hailing from, but I don’t speak ugly.” _Kriffing idiot_ , he has time to think, _impulse contr—_

Then the left side of his head is ringing with pain, and Han Solo drops to the ground like a sack of bricks. A burst of color washes in front of his eyes, and from his newfound position on the floor he sees the Ithorian’s foot rear above him again. _Wh—_

The harsh laughter of an Anzat cuts through Han’s haze, and from a table above someone shouts in Basic: “He asked you why you been staring at his girl all night! The lead singer!”

Slurring now from the pain and the alcohol, Han manages, “I wasn’t staring at her, you bastard—” and manages to get his arm up to block most of the Ithorian’s next kick. “ _Chewie!_ ” he yells, “ _Chewie, get in here!_ ”

Chewbacca had spent the evening fiddling with a radio transmitter on the stoop outside the bar, telling Han that tabac smoke makes him woozy. His ears perk up at the commotion inside, but at a call from Han the Wookiee charges through the entrance door with a deafening cry.

Han closes his eyes in a moment of thanks, then watches through blurring vision as Chewie slams the Ithorian into his posse’s table, busting the servingware and causing food to fly through the air. A chorus of alien grunts and cries rises into the air as drinks slosh into laps, and Chewie pulls Han roughly to his feet and hauls him out the door before the rest of the Ithorian’s friends can untangle themselves from the mess long enough to give chase.

Limping badly now and gasping a bit from the pain, Han lets Chewie half-carry him back to the _Falcon_. With one fist balled into the Wookiee’s fur, Han grins at his friend. “Thanks for looking out for me, pal,” he says, and Chewie growls softly in agreement.

The _Falcon_ is parked across a landing strip out back of the bar, and Han thinks he’s never been so happy to see home. For a moment his mind balks at the word “home”— _home is with Luke_ —but Han pushes this unwelcome thought roughly away. _‘S me, the damned king of denial_ , he thinks with a snort. As he and Chewie mount the metal on-ramp to the ship, Han turns his throbbing head back to glance at the bar. It’s probably not possible—they’re too far away—but still, Han swears he can still hear the last lingering lines of that stupid song.

**♫ I’m always in this twilight in the shadow of your heart ♫**

Once safely inside, Chewie helps ease Han down onto his bed, and Han is dimly aware of a cooling bacta patch being pressed to his temple. He reaches up to grab the Wookiee’s arm, and says, “Look, Chewie, ‘s real sweet of ya, but we gotta get out of here. Those big slobs could come after us any minute, and I’m not in any condition for round two.” With a nod and a growl, Chewie ducks out of the port and turns for the cockpit.

With one eye cracked open, Han watches him go. A thought occurs to him, and he grimly reaches down to feel his swollen hip, then assesses the damage on his temple. Fingers sticky with his own blood, he figures he may have a concussion, but— _but still, I’m still the blasted captain of this ship_ , he berates himself, _and I’ll let the Maker take me before I give up and leave Chewie to do my job on his own_. He counts his heartbeats, and at ten steels himself to sit up. As he does, his hip groans and his head gives a mighty throb, and he back down to the mattress in a faint, blacking out from the pain.

* * *

 

When Han comes to again he’s in total darkness. No impulse power-lights from the _Falcon_ glow above him, where they should be. He opens his eyes as wide as they go and waves a hand in front of his face—nothing. He sits up swiftly, with breath catching in his throat, and he can feel panic rising up— _OhkriffI’vegoneblindI’mblindI’m_ —

Then a voice speaks from beside him, quiet, heavy.

“I felt your pain.”

Han turns his head slowly to the left, and finally he can see again. The darkness recedes from the familiar figure that glows with soft blue light and now, impossibly, is sitting beside him.

_The kid._

Luke’s face is heavy with grief and lined with more wrinkles than Han remembers. His once-thick blonde hair now falls lank and graying to his shoulders, which stoop from a burden that Han instinctively knows he’ll never understand.

With a slow blink, Han takes in the blueish apparition. He reaches up to slap himself in the face— _this can’t be real, the kid is gone_ —but finds that his hand passes through the air where his body should be.

“There isn’t any use,” Luke says. “You’re unconscious, Han—we’re meeting inside the Force. I could sense that something happened to you, but trying to reach you through the Force would be pointless unless you were in this state.”

Han’s mouth hangs slightly agape, and he has to remind himself to close it before he starts drawing flies. “In this state? What, d’you mean the ‘ _passed out after getting the shit kicked out of me in a bar-brawl_ ’ state?” He lets out a choked laugh. “Besides, I thought we were finished. Toast, kid.”

Abruptly, Luke reaches his hand up to Han’s left temple. His eyes crease with worry as he murmurs, “Old man, you really let them get to you.”

Han shakes his head, ignoring Luke’s pointed concern. “I’m fine. It’s not me I’m worried about—or’ve _ever_ been worried about.”

At this, Luke turns away. Takes a breath, seems about to say something—then stops.

“What?” Han says, feeling like he’s about to fall off the bed.

“If you were so worried, you should have come with me when I asked.” Luke’s voice is small and bruised-sounding, and in that instant of closeness Han is flooded with memories that he drank so hard to suppress. _Luke, with the same bruised voice, laying his head on Han’s shoulder, murmuring about the pain and sudden surprise surrounding the death of his aunt and uncle. Han handing Luke a socket-wrench and laughing when Luke accidentally wipes engine grease all over his nose. Luke, with eyes sparkling in the Tattooine sun, challenging Han to a bantha race. Han kissing Luke on all of his bruises. The two of them making dinner together, nevermind the accidentally burned crusts or oversalted meats, just happy to be home—whichever planet that may be on._

But in an instant the memories turn sour, as they always do, replayed in Han’s nightmares over and over, his own personal purgatory. _Luke standing with Leia and Lando’s son, a boy of 15 already taller than his master. The horrified pain that echoed through Han and Luke’s Force connection on the day young Ben destroyed the Jedi school. Luke lugging branches to the pyres for the four students that Ben murdered, tears making tracks down his face, as Han stands far away and watches, unsure what to say or how to do anything. And later at the end of that long, terrible day, when Han tries to comfort, to give condolences, Luke turns away. Chasms of unimaginable grief. Han, unsure, lost, drawing away from Luke, and each day they have less to say to one another._

_Until one morning Han wakes up and Luke isn’t in bed beside him, isn’t in their shared hut at all, isn’t anywhere on the planet or in the galaxy, and their Force connection rings empty, and Han can’t sense the kid at all._

Han stares hard at the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on the rumpled sheets that Luke’s light barely illuminates. “After Ben……. did what he did…. I couldn’t fix it. I never could’ve.” His eyes sting now, like he’d cry if any of this were corporeal, and he hisses, “So after a while I just stopped trying.”

Quietly, Luke exhales. Han still can’t look at him—looks everywhere _but_ at him—but he knows the familiar breathing pattern, the way it slows when Luke is thinking hard. Han permits himself a sidelong glance at Luke’s hands: older now, worn, rough. _Where has he been_?

Luke says, as if somehow answering the question, “I’ve been _lonely_.”

At this, Han recalls all the unreturned hugs, the cold shoulders, the silent nights and lonesome mornings following the Jedi school incident, and in an instant his pain is flash-fried. He faces Luke with one fist balled, eyes alight, splitting headache forgotten. “ _You_ rejected _me_. I tried to comfort you, but _no_ , you had’ta _meditate_ and _ruminate_. You practically spent every wakin’ moment trying to convene with those wrinkled old Masters of yours through the kriffing _Force_. What good’s Han Solo when you’ve got a little frog man and your dead teachers to lean on?!”

Luke stiffens, and he raises his eyes to meet Han’s directly for the first time. Han is stricken, as always, by their infinite blue— _Utapu and the damned growing season_ , he thinks distantly—and he blinks in tandem with the kid.

“Han, I wanted to turn to you, but Ben… what Ben did left me ragged. I’m not the same as I was before he did that. He _betrayed_ me, Han, made me harder, made me scared of what I’d created. You’ve seen the size that the First Order has grown to! You’ve seen how he created the Knights of Ren and how he wields a lightsaber that _I taught him how to make!_ ” Luke stops now, wide-eyed, panting a little. “I wanted you to come with me into the furthest rings of the Outer Rim, alone, to find healing, but I was secretly frightened that you would hate me.” He tilts his chin to the side, eyes surveying Han’s face as if afraid he’ll find it etched with disgust.

“I spent these long years in exile convening with the Living Force and coming to understand my role in the direction the galaxy is taking, and finally, when I felt peace again, I was able to sense your presence. I tried to reach out to you over and over, but tonight was my first chance to break through.”

A wry smile slowly slides across Han’s face. “Well… I guess we c’n thank the Ithorian for that.”

Luke returns the smile, a small glint that erases years from his countenance. “Han, I wanted us to heal together. I was too broken before to express it, but… but I still want you by my side.”

With these words, he holds up his left hand, and in it is clutched a small silver droid component. The organic hand glows faintly blue in the space between them: careworn, fingernails ragged, but still— _but still_ , Han remembers that hand, and suddenly he fills up with a yearning that’s been gnawing at him for years.

Gently, Han reaches up and takes the droid component. It’s solid, and he thumbs the metal piece and studies it: it’s somehow cool, and it reflects Luke’s light. He wants to take Luke’s hand as well, but the Force dream is fading now, flickering away. The last thing Han Solo sees is Luke's blue eyes blinking shut, then the words, “I’ll see you soon, old man.” The rest is darkness.

* * *

 

A warm, shaggy hand is petting Han’s back gingerly, and Han cracks one eyelid open. He swings a hand to his forehead, which throbs considerably less than it did last night. In his palm he grips his gift: the droid component piece. With a grunt, he pushes himself vertical, and Chewie swims into focus.

“Thanks for the bacta and the helpin’ hand last night, Chewie,” Han says, and the Wookiee nods in agreement. Han begins to pull on his boots and vest, his hands shaking with excitement. “I want you to keep the engine hot for me, would you? We’ve got to fetch Artoo from Leia. I have a new set of coordinates for him to read,” he says.

“We’re going to visit an old friend.”


End file.
